:)
Of all things that
have ever asked to be written, you are perhaps the cruelest. In fact
your audacity to ask for one rather amused me. Being well aware of what
you do to me, it is unbecoming of you in your thunderous stature to ask
for one. White light, you scare me. Your sound accompanist scares me
further, and I could not have placed it straighter. Your lines travel
right into my veins and create stories of distortion, envelops me in the
whiteness of your being only to catapult me into closely shut eyelids
of blank shadows.
Why
do you exist? You break the harmony of sound, sight, smell. As I pull
the pillow closer, or move away from the thought of you, hopelessly, I
move into more hopelessness. The infinite forlornness of being. The
infinite impossibility of desired possibilities. The infinite tangle
between flesh and soul. And somewhere in between, the infinite moment of
living.
I
feel like screaming, "Go Back!", and other such deafening remarks, but
you blind them all with one ear-splitting nano second of shock. The
insides of me are in a vitriolic excess, and they are manifested in a
reticent profusion. In those moments you eliminate any scope of
betterment and the only thing you seem to bequeath is bitterness. In
those moments of your being, characters of friends, fade, and daughters,
die.
Your
firework in the sky is distasteful. You do bring in the rain to heal
all the wounds, but it hardly helps. I feel as if there is a
thundershower of thorns. I wonder if you have ever believed that you
have such an impact on anyone. In fact, what would happen if anyone
stole your thunder? Tonight, I cannot think of answers.
Scarred,
K.
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